


A Frenchman and a Pole Walk Into a Fashion Show...

by Dewy_Peach



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Car Chase, Comedy, Drinking, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, French Desserts, Friendship, Gen, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Swordfighting, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 07:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewy_Peach/pseuds/Dewy_Peach
Summary: Everyone's favourite fashionable duo goes on a search for new clothes, and ends up having a series of unexpected adventures.





	A Frenchman and a Pole Walk Into a Fashion Show...

 

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

The loud and obnoxious SMS notifications sounded one by one, rudely cutting off the stream of heavy-beat electronic music coming from Poland’s earphones. Irrationally irritated at this interruption to his morning of doing literally nothing, Poland set down his glass of chocolate milk and reached for his pink-cased phone, which lay on the desk next to his leisurely crossed legs.

It was a typical autumn day, with an annoying on-and-off drizzle and grey clouds covering the sky – which only worsened Poland’s already sour mood. Days like that were perfect for brooding, and Poland just happened to have many things to brood over. The shitty economy was one, the increasingly fascist government was another, and of course, there was the outrageous fact that all middle-schoolers were STILL, in 2018, forced to dance to hideously old and unfashionable ballroom music.

Poland reluctantly picked up his phone. The new messages were displayed on his lockscreen, half-hiding the wallpaper which featured a picture of himself, looking fabulous on a majestic white horse. _3 NEW MESSAGES FROM: FRANCJA._

He swiped his lockscreen away. The messages read:

**_Francja:_ ** _FELIKS_

**_Francja:_ ** _I’M IN CRISIS_

**_Francja:_ ** _HELP_

Poland rolled his eyes. France has always had a tendency for being overdramatic. What was it this time? Did the old man break a nail? Was he served a croissant that was not quite fresh enough? Or was it still the feelings of emptiness and betrayal that have haunted him since Brexit? An image popped into Poland’s mind: France sprawled over the floor (or more likely some antique rug), sobbing, maybe pressing a hand to his chest, and complaining in his heavy accent about something utterly meaningless and ridiculous.

He snorted. “ _What is it?”_ he typed and tapped send. Then waited.

_BEEP!_

**_Francja:_ ** _I don’t have anything to wear…_

Poland threw his free arm in the air with exasperation, then, after putting some thought into it, realised that he could actually relate, and let his arm drop to his side. _“Feel you_ ,” he typed. Having nothing to wear was indeed a real crisis which shouldn’t be taken lightly. He glanced over his shoulder at his own wardrobe, a huge piece of furniture which stretched from wall to wall and reached the ceiling. It was filled to the brim with clothes of all colours and styles that one could think of. _“Me neither,”_ he added to the message.

_BEEP!_

**_Francja:_ ** _wanna go shopping?_

**_Francja:_ ** _You’re my last hope._

Poland clicked his tongue. _“I can’t,”_ he replied. _“I’m like, literally broke.”_ That was true; also, he felt too lazy and depressed to go anywhere.

**_Francja:_ ** _Come on Feliks, everything’s on end of season sale. And it’s almost winter. Don’t tell me that YOU of all people are going to walk around wearing stuff from LAST YEAR!_

Poland frowned. “ _LOL_ _look who’s talking, mr. going to parties with clothes that went out of fashion around the 1500s!”_

**_Francja:_ ** _OMG ouch? my clothes never go out of fashion :(_

**_Francja:_ ** _pls, it’ll be fun. I bet you aren’t doing anything better anyway, are you_

Well, that was undeniably true as well, Poland had to admit, yet…

**_Francja:_ ** _I haven’t seen you in ages :(_

Also true… France wasn’t too bad. Even pretty nice sometimes. And really, it’s been a long time since he’s had some _fun._ Maybe going out would cheer him up a bit? And he doesn’t HAVE to buy anything…

Oh, he couldn’t fool himself with that, he always ended up buying too much. Then again, new clothes were a very necessary and reasonable expense. “ _K, I might consider it, but ur coming to Warsaw, stuff’s cheaper here.”_

**_Francja:_ ** _HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA NO_

Poland felt his face growing red. His perfectly manicured fingers began flying over the keyboard, typing a furious essay-long response to defend his capital and present its merits both as a holiday destination and a commercial area, while pointing out France’s terrible condescending West-European attitude. However, a chain of messages from France popped up before he managed to finish it.

**_Francja:_ ** _Sorry, didn’t mean it that way_

**_Francja:_ ** _Listen, I’ll get you the plane ticket, OK? And discounts on everything_

**_Francja:_ ** _And you can stay the night at my place_

**_Francja:_ ** _BTW_

**_Francja:_ ** _Do you know what day it is? ;)_

Poland hesitated, his anger gradually soothed by France’s quite-appealing offer. He reluctantly deleted the half-finished enraged SMS – but not before copying and saving it as a note, in case he’ll need it at some point later. _“What”,_ he wrote, wondering where the hell France was going with it. It wasn’t his birthday, was it? No, that was in July, or June, or something. Whatever.

**_Francja_ ** _: The first day of Paris Fashion Week ;)_

Poland gasped. NO FUCKING WAY! He’s always (secretly) wanted to see the shows in the Parisien Fashion Week.

**_Polska:_ ** _ASDFLASKDFJASLVKAHSDLFKAHSDLFKAHSDf_

**_Polska:_ ** _WHY DIDNT U SAT_

He paused and re-read his last message. Something was off.

**_Polska:_ ** _SAY*_

**_Francja:_ ** _are you coming then_

A little rational voice inside of Poland screamed at him to reconsider, but it was already too late. “ _YEAH OBV”,_ his fingers typed on their own accord.

**Francja** : Great, because I already booked your flight :)

**Polska:** Wtf???? YOU BOOKED MY FLIGHT BEFORE I SAID IT WAS OK?

**Polska:** k whatevs

**Polska:** When is it? Tmr or day after

**Francja:** 2h from now. Better hurry

Poland stared at his phone, shook it and blinked a few times to make sure that he his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. “ _Are you fucking bullshitting me rn,”_ he demanded.

**Francja:** Sorry, but no

Poland cursed. He swung his legs off the table, and by doing so knocked down the glass of chocolate milk, which spilt all over the wooden surface, spraying over his open books. “Oh, kurwa!” he shouted, throwing his phone at the wall and getting up while letting out a string of louder, juicier swear words. He looked around. How the hell was he supposed to make it to that flight on time, and where in the devil’s name was his suitcase?

From the corner, his phone buzzed with another message notification. “Shut the fuck up!” Poland yelled at it. He caught the chocolate milk bottle, which was just about to roll off the table. There was still a bit left inside. He emptied it in one sip and angrily hurried out of the room to get paper towels.

 

* * *

 

France stood in the crowded waiting area at the Charles de Gaulle airport, impatiently checking his elegant Jaeger-LeCoultre watch for what felt like the thousandth time. Flight number AF 44571 from Warsaw had apparently been delayed, and he’d been waiting there for about two hours now. He was growing more and more sick of seeing happy reunions all around him, and his knees were starting to hurt from all that standing around. Heavens, he was really growing old. France glanced towards the terminal’s exit again. Oh joy, he noted, _another_ group of Chinese tourists. They were everywhere!

But wait, what was that behind them, that black-and-pink blur? France raised his eyebrows. Indeed, as the figure drew near, it became recognizable as a black-clad, blond young man pulling a pink suitcase. Poland’s gait was unmistakable; he strolled over the shiny airport floor as if it was a catwalk, casually swinging his hips with every step.

France raised an eyebrow. His eastern friend was attracting more than a few glances with his black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and black bat-winged platform shoes, which looked like they were made to stomp dead the wearer’s enemies. He was also wearing black lipstick, which made the natural dark circles under his eyes stand out. For a moment France wondered about the vibrant pink of Poland’s suitcase, which seemed completely unmatching to his outfit; then the younger country theatrically blew and popped a gum bubble, which was exactly the same shade of pink as his suitcase.

“Hello, Feliks,” France waved at him, his heart surging with pride. Little Poland, so stylish, always giving a stunning entrance. Well of course, France gave him a very good example. Oh, the sweet joy of youth, and that touch with the gum was so-

“You look old!” Poland yelled at him.

“You– you ungrateful little piece of shit!“ France shouted back, all hints of affection fleeing his mind faster than England from an eyebrow trimmer. “Why would you say that?”

“ _You_ should be grateful that I’m even here!” Poland glared as he approached. “What the hell was that, booking me a flight and only telling me _two hours before?”_

France threw his arms in the air, noticing that people around were staring, hands pressed to mouths with stunned expressions. “I forgot, ok?” he said, worriedly glancing about them. “I’m sorry, alright? Can you stop being so salty?”

“I can’t fucking help being salty, that’s just who I am!”

Poland reached France and stood in front of him with crossed arms. France attacked him with a hug and squeezed him tightly, lifting him in the air. Poland’s arms flailed helplessly as he tried to get away. “Can’t… breathe… you’re… suffocating-”

France placed him back on the ground and let go of him. “You look good, Felek.”

“Thanks.” Poland scrunched up his brow and looked up at France. “Did you cut your hair?”

“And dyed it, yes.” France’s hair was now auburn, as opposed to his natural golden-brown, and much shorter than it used to be, with a long side-swept fringe that fell away from his face in little waves. He liked it quite a lot. “I felt like a change,” he said defensively, “after half a century with the same hairstyle.”

“Well, it suits you. It looks fresh and lively. That outfit though…” He paused dryly. “You look like some hipstery artist.”

France was wearing a blue, woollen coat that reached his knees, a white, ironed and buttoned-up shirt and brown-and-white Aubercy oxfords, which matched his plaid tartan scarf. He was wearing eyeglasses with a thin, golden frame, which he didn’t really need - his eyesight was perfect. “I was an artist before it was c-”

“It was never cool. It’s _not_ cool. _You’re_ not cool, Francis-”

“Come on! I look nice and elegant!” France looked down at his clothing. “Right?”

“If that makes you feel better…” Poland sighed. Then he stirred. “When is the opening show?”

France checked his watch. _Again._ “In… oh no.” He cleared his throat. “Little more than half an hour.”

Poland’s eyes widened with horror. “W-what? How the hell are we going to make it? Fr-”

“Hey, is it my fault that your flight got delayed?” France gestured towards the exit. “Come, we can make it in time if we hurry…”

Poland shook his head to himself and began walking as fast as his platform shoes allowed. France followed, starting to get worried as well. When they reached the parking lot, Poland looked around, then pointed at a light blue vintage Renault which stood out like a peacock in a flock of pigeons. “That one’s yours?”

“Yup. Cute or what?” France dug the keys out of his pocket as they approached. He rounded the car to the trunk and unlocked it, lifting the lid, then reached for Poland’s suitcase. “I can do it myself,” Poland said through gritted teeth, raising the suitcase and landing it in the trunk with a thump. France heard glass clinking inside – they had a tradition of bringing their best alcohol when they visited each other – and hoped that none of the bottles broke.

France opened the door on the driver’s side and entered. Poland settled in next to him, lounging comfortably with his legs outstretched.

“So, how are you doing?” France asked conversationally as he started the engine.

“Y'know,” Poland shrugged, “same old...everything sucks.”

“Can’t be that bad. You’re meeting me.”

“It really is lifting my spirits a bit, honestly.”

“Aw, Feliks!” Francis exclaimed. “I’m happy to see you too.”

Poland rolled his eyes.

“And how’s it going with…” Francis wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he drove out of the parking lot into broad daylight and the sound of chirping birds.

“Still hates me,” Poland replied shortly. He stared blankly and grimly out the front window for a moment. “You guys?”

“Still hates me,” France echoed, then laughed. “At least we’re not at war, eh?”

“Don’t they realise they’re lucky to have us...” Poland shook his head. “What about the kids?”

“Matthew is a wonderfully good boy, as always. I was hanging out with him last weekend, in fact. We watched the new Spiderman movie.”

Poland popped a gum bubble again. “Is it any good? Natasha and I have been thinking about giving it a try.”

“It’s cute. I laughed a lot.”

“That’s nice. What about America?”

“I’m not talking to him until he admits climate change is real. Which doesn’t seem to be anytime soon.”  France suddenly frowned at the sight in the front window. “What’s with this traffic jam? It’ll take us ages to get there.”

“You’re kidding me!” Poland straightened up. He spat the gum into France’s small trash bin. “I can’t miss the opening show after I came all this way!”

“Maybe we can make it…” France pursed his lips worriedly. “I hope this jam doesn’t last long.”

The next few minutes were spent in anxious silence, both of them watching forwards in silent prayer, until Poland, with France’s somewhat hesitant permission, connected his phone to the speakers and put on a playlist of classics that they could both relate to. He made sure to steer clear of any Chopin, which would certainly resurrect old and dangerous arguments of ‘ _he liked me better than you_ ,’ and instead chose some more modern (and politically unrelated to either nation), but not less exquisite musicians, such as Lady Gaga. “But you have to sing along as well,” he declared. “Or I’m not singing.”

“Oh, of course. I wouldn’t risk _that_.”

As was their tradition, all the proper hand gestures and facial expressions were required. By the third song, drivers in nearby cars giving them odd looks. “I’m beautiful in my way, ‘cause God makes no mistakes,” Poland yelled, throwing his head violently from side to side so his hair flew all over. He held an imaginary microphone towards France, who enthusiastically completed, “I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way!”

“Hey, can you guys quiet it down?” Shouted a muscular man in sunglasses from a nearby car, his arm threateningly resting on the lowered window.

France and Poland exchanged glances. “No,” Poland said, sticking out his tongue. “Bye, hater!” At that moment, the traffic jam thinned out and the little blue Renault sailed forward swiftly, carrying the laughing duo away from the angry man who cursed after them. France waved him a cheerful goodbye.

“How long till we get there?” Poland asked when the laughter died out.

“Too long.” France’s expression turned serious again. “I’m sorry, Feliks, I don’t think we’ll make it.”

“Oh, come on!” Poland complained, “you just gotta drive a bit faster!”

“I’m almost at the speed limit! I can’t break my own traffic laws!”

“Of course you can. What’ll the police do, put you in prison? You’re the goddamn country.”

“It already happened before,” Francis informed him, “and then I was also beheaded. No, we’re gonna be late, nothing to do about it.”

The song suddenly stopped and was replaced by something that sounded like the kind of ambience played on torture devices in hell. France screeched, wanting to cover his ears with his hands but unwilling to remove them from the wheel. “What the hell is that?!”

“Disco Polo,” Poland said indignantly.

“Make it stop!”

“I will if you drive faster!”

“Feliks! That’s low.”

The music became louder.

“I… will… not… drive… faster…” France muttered through gritted teeth.

“Please, France. When was the last time you did something rebellious? I bet back in the Revolution. You’re becoming old and boring. Think about the good old times, eh? The two of us, troublemakers…”

“What are you talking about?” France asked faintly.

“You know what?” Poland smirked. “I bet England would do it.”

“What?”

“With all his faults,” Poland went on thoughtfully, “at least he’s got some nerve. Maybe that’s why he won’t talk to you. You’re no longer the brave and powerful empire you used to be. Now you don’t even dare to go above the speed limit. He probably prefers to fuck someone that’s more–”

“Oh, fuck you, Feliks.” France clenched his jaw even tighter. His light blue eyes clouded with a storm of inner conflict. For a moment, he seemed as if he were about to give a firm and final refusal… Then he pressed the gas pedal all the way, and the little Renault shot forward. Poland cheered and clapped his hands as France zigzagged between routes to overtake other cars. “Good job, good job!”

“Shut up! Sit there quietly and think about what you’ve done,” France swore. Surprisingly, he was grinning. “And turn off that horrible music already!”

It wasn’t even a minute before sirens began sounding behind them. France glanced at the mirror to find a police car following them. “Stop where you are,” ordered a stern voice on a megaphone.

“Don’t stop!” Poland objected. He felt the cold wind from the open window slapping his face, and his heartbeat accelerated at the notion of a chase – even though it was only French highway patrol.

“Who do you think I am?” France called in reply, a wild look in his eyes. “Allez! We ride this one to the bitter end!”

Poland hooted with excitement. “Go, go, go!”

And so they rode, only the bitter end came sooner than expected. They were entering the city now, and in an attempt to lose their followers, France took a sharp turn into an alley. Which was blocked by a tall brick wall.

“Dead end,” France sighed, as he brought the car to a screeching halt. “But it’s not over! We stand our ground. We do not surrender!”

That didn’t make any sense, but Poland was beyond caring. He was having fun, and could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he hopped out of the car. “What can we use to defend ourselves?” He asked.

“There’s gotta be something in the trunk.”

They lifted the lid together. Inside (besides Poland’s suitcase) there was a pile of strange objects with little similarity between them. The two nations began to hurriedly rummage through as the sound of sirens grew louder. Poland searched without much success, discarding a blue feathered hat, a box full of French oldies CDs, a pair of pink furry handcuffs – “France!” he exclaimed. “You dirty old man!”

France elegantly ignored that. “Ta-da!” he said triumphantly, lifting two fencing swords. “They’re not sharp, but they’ll do.” He threw one over to Poland, who instinctively caught it by the handle, his muscles remembering the training from ages ago. This practice toy felt too light in his hand, but it was a sword nonetheless.

“Come on, over here!” France gestured quickly, running for the brick wall. Poland followed, and they positioned themselves with their backs to the wall, falling into defensive stances just as a group of four policemen made it around the corner.

The policemen halted with surprise at the strange sight - France, looking like an art student who had just murdered a man and drank his blood for breakfast, and Poland, seemingly a fierce winged hussar who was going through a goth phase, both of them holding dull fencing swords, ready to kill. But the policeman regained their senses quickly. “Drop your weapons,” called one, as they reached for their own. “Hands up where we can see them.”

“Never!” France threateningly swung his sword about. “Long live the Franco-Polish union!”

“There is no such union!” Poland shrieked. Without thinking, he charged the nearest policeman and batted the gun out of his hand with a well-aimed blow.

“I have just created it! You have no say!” France smacked a second policeman between the legs, causing him to double over with a cry of pain. He then quite gracefully spun and hit the third policeman on the side of the head. The poor man let out a small “oof” before collapsing.

Poland rushed to pick up the gun, which had skidded a few meters away. “That’s not how it works,” he panted as he snatched it from the ground and spun, aiming it towards the remaining policeman. Only to find that he was already escaping out of the alley while calling for help on his communication device. His two still-standing companions exchanged horrified glances and followed suit. “Well, shit. They got away.” Poland looked at France, then at the policeman who lay at his feet. “Is he dead?”

“Of course not.” France poked the man with his foot, provoking a groan. “Just stunned. Boy, I can’t believe I just attacked my own policemen.”

Poland solemnly patted him on the shoulder. “You fought well.”

“Thanks, you too.”

The exchanged high-fives, as fitting for honourable warriors.

“You didn’t really mean it,” Poland asked, “with the union, right?”

“I…” France looked embarrassed. On a second, more rational thought, Poland was one of the last people he wanted to unite with. “I meant it in the heat of the moment.”

“I think it would be a terrible idea,” Poland said bluntly.

France breathed with relief. “Me too. Thanks, Felek.”

An orchestra of sirens suddenly sounded from all around, and a moment later several police cars stopped at the entrance of the alley. Dozens of figures stepped out with ready weapons. France and Poland looked at each other, and sighed. “Goodbye, Fashion Week Opening,” Poland whispered tragically as they dropped their swords with loud clanking noises.

 

* * *

 

“Let’s try again. What’s your name? Your _real_ name.”

France and Poland were being interrogated in the police station of the suburban area in which they were caught. Poland’s suitcase, France’s car, and all of their bags and pockets have been searched. Unsurprisingly, the police couldn’t find any papers, besides a few ancient coats of arms.

“Republic of Poland,” Poland said.

“Oh, cut the crap.”

Poland sighed with exasperation and sunk lower in the stiff chair. It turned out to be a mistake, because that way his handcuffed hands dug into his lower back, making the position very uncomfortable. “Feliks Łukasiewicz,” he tried.

“That’s better. How old are you?”

“Around a thousand. Not sure exactly-”

“Oh, _Dieu!”_

The interrogator stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Poland, staring him straight in the eye. “I am warning you, if you won’t cooperate, we will have to resort to less pleasant methods!”

“Uh,” France interjected, “I know he looks underage, but he’s actually not much younger than me.”

“Hey!” Poland protested. “Who’d you call a kid?”

“Yeah?” the interrogator turned to France. “And how old are you?”

“One thousand one hundred seventy-five.”

The interrogator slapped a hand to his forehead with despair. “And now for real?”

France smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the compliment, sir. I love hearing that I look young for my age.”

A short silence fell. The interrogator took a long, slow and calming breath. “Let’s try something else,” he said, forcefully pulling on a smile. “Are you a citizen of our country?”

“It would be more correct to say,” France noted, “that you are a citizen of _my_ country.”

The interrogator’s eyes bulged in his head and he seemed about to burst out, and perhaps resort to said less-pleasant-measures. Thankfully, at that moment came a sharp knock on the door, and a voice announced: “the president is here!”

“Look what you got me into!” France hissed at Poland.

The interrogator seemed horrified and confused as the door swung open, exposing none other than the president of the French Republic, in all his grey-haired and frowny glory, with his personal escort. “M-mr president, s-sir-”

“If I may have a word with Mr France, please,” the president cut him off stiffly.

“With Mr Fr- fra- what? Oh, I’m sorry, of course.” He retreated out of the door and closed it behind him.

As soon as he was gone, the president turned to France, all red-faced and furious. “What did you think you were doing? You’ve embarrassed the government and put your good name to shame! I’m not supposed to be babysitting a thousand-years-old like a kid!”

“It wasn’t my idea,” France muttered, glaring at Poland who was quite unsuccessfully trying to hold himself from laughing.

“I don’t care whose idea it was! You’re supposed to be smarter than that! Speeding and reckless driving - that can be forgiven. But an _armed attack of policemen? I_ don’t even know, by this point, if it’s all an attempt to get attention, or have you lost your mind completely-”

France cleared his throat. “Can we have this conversation in a more private forum?”

Poland took the hint and got up from his chair. He walked to the door, then realized that opening it with his hands cuffed might prove a complicated task. He spent several very awkward seconds fiddling with the handle using his elbows before the president took pity of him and opened the door.

As soon as Poland stepped out into the corridor, joining the pale-faced interrogator, the door slammed behind him and yelling in French commenced. Poland leaned his back to the wall and slowly sunk down to a sitting position, quietly giggling.

“So…” the interrogator shuffled uncomfortably. “You really are Poland?”

Poland shot him a glance. “Um. Yeah.”

“Ah.” The interrogator scratched his head. “Great place, Poland. We- uhh, I mean, my wife and I, went there on vacation once.”

“Nice,” Poland said dryly. “Thanks.”

“Went camping in the Masurian lake area, y’know. Very pastoral. We had a good time. Lots of ducks. The food was too heavy, though-”

“Just… stop talking,” Poland suggested.

The interrogator swallowed. “Ok.”

A few minutes later the president burst out of the little room, followed by a sheepish France. “Let those two go,” he ordered with a tired expression, and then hurriedly left the place as suddenly as he had arrived. Within a few minutes, France and Poland were released from their bounds and given their belongings back.

“How did that go?” Poland asked.

“Not too bad. He gave me a lecture, then went like, _it’s not like we can put you in prison.”_

“I told ya!” Poland grinned and cheerfully elbowed him in the side. “What time is it?”

France shook himself and checked his watch. “Late,” he said. “The last show must have ended already.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep…”

“What now?”

They looked at each other in mutual realization. There was only one way to deal with the loss and sorrow, and it involved a lot of alcohol.

 

* * *

 

France’s Parisian apartment had a large balcony with several straw chairs, a little table and a stunning view of the city, the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. France liked to sit there, ponder over world-shaking questions while gazing towards the horizon and feel like an enlightened philosopher. Now, Poland and him shared the spot, gradually making their way through a bottle of red Château Margaux and a Soplica vodka while playing Rat-a-Tat Cat. They were doing one round of wine, then one of vodka, then wine again, and so on. Poland kept winning, miraculously getting all the nice and fluffy cat cards, but even as his points rose his expression was becoming darker and darker.

“What's wrong?” France asked him.

Poland stared at the view as France refilled his glass. “I hate my country,” he declared, and set down his hand of cards. They all presented the orange cat dressed as the Statue of Liberty. A perfect winning hand.  “It sucks… I’m leaving… Can I just move in with you?”

France reached over and clumsily patted his head.  “You can’t run away from yourself, Felek.” He put down the bottle of wine next to its several empty companions. “But you’re always welcome to crash here.”

Poland sipped gloomily. He seemed to be gradually sliding off his chair. “When will they invent a fucking time machine? I wanna go back.”

“To what?”

“The Commonwealth.”

France made a face. “You’re just painting your childhood in happy colours so that you have something to hold on to,” he said. “Life was way harder back then.”

“But I didn’t know that. I was happy with the life I had.” Poland sniffled and held out his once-again-empty glass to be refilled. “And I had Liet.”

“It’s kind of your fault that you no longer do,” France pointed out and poured him another glass.  

“I fucking know that.”

They sat in silence for a while. In the distance, the Eiffel tower lit up, becoming a spectacle of flashing white and yellow lights. A round hour, probably midnight.

“Don’t you ever miss the good old days, Francis?” Poland asked quietly.

“What good old days? Century-long wars? Plagues? Inequality and poverty? 40 being considered an old age?”

Poland tilted his head and gave him a look of flat disbelief.

“Well, yeah. I do.” France sighed. “Every day.”

Poland nodded. “I try to find the good things in the present, but sometimes it’s just impossible.”

“Why,” France objected, “It’s easy. For example, right now it’s a warm and calm night, and you’re drinking good wine and gazing at the Eiffel tower in the company of a very handsome man.”

Poland laughed despite himself. “True. But-”

France held up a silencing hand. “No butts.”

“Ok, not saying anything.” Poland stared into his glass, shaking it gently and causing his reflection in the wine to wiggle and twist. After a moment, he took it back and did speak after all. “I wish I could just talk to him, you know? But every time I feel brave enough to do it, I start thinking about all the ways it could go wrong, and how weird it is to just call after so long, and then I think that maybe I shouldn't do it after all, then more time passes, and it becomes even weirder to call because its been even longer...”

“And you want to talk because you hope it'll make things alright between the two of you,” France added, “but you're so afraid of the possibility that he won't want anything to do with you that you prefer not to risk it.”

“Well.. nn.. well, yeah.” Poland nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Just do it. Then you'll know for sure, at least.”

“Easier said than done! Why don't you just talk to your Mr Soggy Burnt Toast?”

“I know, I know! I'm not blaming you.” France poured again. They both raised their glasses solemnly and made a toast. France was looking very thoughtful, and dragged his finger along the edge of his glass, producing a hollow echoing sound. “Why don't we do it together?”

“Do what?” Poland blinked at him.

“Text our dumbass 'it's complicated' boyfriends who don't know how lucky they are to have us?”

Poland looked taken aback. “I don't know if drunk-texting is a good way to solve this-”

“Look, let's face it. It's not gonna happen when you're sober.”

“Hmph. I do feel a little bit braver now.” Poland made a face. “Or maybe more desperate.”

“So we do it?”

“No.”

“Seriously? You were the one lecturing me earlier about being a coward.”

“Sorry, Francis, I just don't have it in me.”

France grabbed Poland's shoulders and shook him. “Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life? Sit at home miserably watching shitty romance shows and filing your nails while crying over the lost golden age?”

“No!” Poland cried. “And just so you know, I, like, never do stuff like that. Not at all. OK! Fine!”

France reached over to the table and picked up his phone. “Alright. How do we phrase it?”

“Hell if I know.”

“ ' _Hey, have you been doing alright?_ '?”

“Nah. That sounds dumb,” Poland said. “You’re avoiding the elephant in the room.”

“' _Hey, I hope you don't hate me anymore_ '?”

Poland shook his head. “That's kinda pathetic.”

“ _'I still love you_ '?”

“Too desperate.”

France sighed. “' _I miss you_ '?”

“I guess that works?”

“Ok. Let's do it before we change our minds.”

Poland picked up his phone. He had the number in quick dial, even though he probably hadn't called it in ages.

They both typed the message.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” France said.

“You were the one to suggest it!” Poland lashed at him. “No backing away now!”

“Did I tell you that I’m not known for having the smartest ideas when I’m drunk?”

“Francis, are you kidding me? I was there when you got us singing in a Cabaret in our underwear.”

France blinked. “I do not remember that.”

“Francis, we're doing this.”

“Ok.” France sighed. “Count of three?”

“Three... Two... ONE.........”

BEEP!

Poland stared in horror at his screen and the small _sent at 00:04._ France set down his own phone, then his cards. All of them were rat cards, with two evil grinning Kings of Rats. He sighed.

“What have we done?” Poland asked.

“Something stupid, most likely.”

 

* * *

 

In his dream, France was a pirate, standing on the bow of his mighty ship and gazing off into the open sea. It was a beautiful day, and the waves sparkled in the sunlight. He breathed in the smell of salt and seaweed, enjoying the breeze for a few moments before noticing that something was off.

He could hear the flapping of sails above him and the cheerful conversation of sailors, but there was also something else, a low roar in the distance that seemed to grow louder with every second. “What’s that?” he said to no one in particular, but as he turned his head, he noticed Poland sitting on the railing beside him.

“We’re nearing the end of the world,” Poland said with an amused little smile, twirling a lock of his curly white wig around his finger. As soon as he said so, France realised that the disturbing sound was indeed that of a mighty waterfall.

“But the Earth is round,” he objected.

Poland shook his head. “Nuh-uh. The year is 1000 BC. We didn’t discover that yet. The Earth is still flat… for now.”

France’s heart sunk in his chest. It seemed to make sense. “But I thought we were in the 17th century,” he said faintly.

“Nah,” Poland said, and began picking his nails with a knife, apparently losing interest in the conversation.

France looked out to the ocean again. The roar was certainly louder now, and he thought he was seeing a cloud of mist rising at the horizon. “But Feliks,” he said, more urgently, “won’t we die when we fall off the edge?”

“It’s not so bad on the other side,” said a voice that was no longer Poland’s, but Prussia’s.

France turned and found himself looking into his old friend’s pale red eyes. “Come on,” he said. “You’re not dead yet.”

“Am I?”

France stepped forward to grip Prussia's shoulder, and as he did so, red turned to green and England was looking down upon him. “I saw your text,” he said, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “You’re all words and no actions. As always. You’d never sacrifice anything important for our relationship.”

“That’s not true. Arthur, I’d die for you.”

They were almost at the waterfall now, and he could see the ocean pouring down from the edge of the world like soup overflowing from a plate. Beyond it, there was only darkness.

“Then perish,” England said flatly. “Better hold tight, Francis.”

They reached the edge. For a moment, the ship balanced on it, and France could see the endless void spreading below. Then it went over, spinning as it fell, and France gripped the railing, the wind blowing hard against his face. He tried to reach out for England, but he was no longer there, and he was in fact completely alone on this doomed ship, heading for certain death.

 

* * *

 

France woke up with a start, breathing quickly. He was, of course, in his room, covered with a sweaty blanket. The light of early morning was coming in through the slit between the curtains. His panic slowly eased away, only to return in a flash as he realised he could still hear the rushing of water.

Coming from the bathroom.

Slowly, he sat up and lowered a foot to the floor. It splashed into cold water.

The floor of the entire room was sunken ankle-deep. So was the corridor, which he could see through the open door. All the way to the… _bathroom._

“POLAND!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “What have you done???”

There was no response as he waded towards the guestroom. Poland was huddled in his blankets, snoring softly.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE???” France grabbed him and shook him hard. Poland’s eyes blinked open slowly. “W-what…” he mumbled, shutting his eyes again. “What are you talking about?”

“The apartment is fucking flooded!”

Poland grimaced. “Oh, no,” he grumbled miserably. “I must have left the water on.”

France stared at him with disbelief, then ran to the bathroom, almost slipping more than once. He turned off the water, having to stand under the still-working douche and getting himself completely wet in the process. “Poland,” he roared as he returned to the guestroom, “what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” came Poland’s muffled complaint. “I was shitfaced!”

“Oh my GOD!” France lifted a pillow from the couch and used it to smack Poland, who groggily covered his face with his hands, calling out: “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

France dropped the pillow with a splash. “Well, _you_ are cleaning this up.”

Poland was silent for a moment. “Okay,” he said at last. “But later. When I wake up.” With that, he turned to the other side and closed his eyes again.

France groaned and shook his head to himself, then sloshed his way back to his room.

 

* * *

 

Poland woke up to the sound of the door opening and the smell of fresh pastries. “Good morning, princess,” France said in a sing-song voice, placing a plate in front of Poland's face. “I made these myself.”

Poland sniffed hungrily, blinked tired eyes several times, then snatched the plate greedily. “Is that _tarte aux fraises_?”

“Your favourite, right?” France said proudly. “I remembered.”

“Thanks,” Poland mumbled, already biting deep into soft buttery pastry, silky-smooth crème pâtissière and glazed strawberry topping. He let out a heartfelt sigh. “You know your pastries, France.”

France beamed.

“Wait,” Poland asked, his mouth full of cream, “did you wake up early just to make this?”

“I wouldn't say early. I woke up at 9. It's 11 now.”

“That's super fucking early,” Poland said. He took another huge bite. “I really appreciate that, friend.”

France winked. “It's not all. Watch this.” He theatrically pulled two pieces of paper out of his pocket and waved them in the air. It was a pair of tickets. Poland squinted, reading the small letters. When he realized what the tickets were for, he almost dropped the tart. “Oh my god! You're just the best!!! Are we going now?”

France's grin widened, and he stuffed the tickets back into his pocket. “Right after you're done mopping the floor.”

“Right...”

 

* * *

 

To make up for the disappointment of the previous day, France pulled some of his strings and got Poland and himself VIP backstage tickets for a famous couture brand's fashion week exhibition. Poland tried his best to hide his excitement, but as the brand was one of his favourites, he couldn't help tapping his foot and bouncing in his seat all the way to the show. Even the fact that he had spent the previous hour mopping couldn't ruin his mood, and the leftover tarte aux fraises neatly packed for later in his bag was quite the bonus.

This morning he was dressed all in light colours, a complete opposite of his outfit from the previous day: a pink floral shirt, a silky and fluttery white scarf and light blue jeans with flower embroideries at the hem. Round sunglasses, pink socks and white sneakers completed the look, which radiated sunshine and optimism. Paris, all around, was lively, artsy and fashionable.

“Say,” France began, looking respectable but fresh in a form-fitting striped suit jacket, “did you get a reply from Mr Sweaters?”

“I don't know,” Poland shrugged, somewhat smugly. “I'm not checking my notifications. Today is me-day.”

“Damn. Impressive.”

“You? Did Mr Egg reply?”

“Nope. But,” France paused, glancing at the upper mirror, “it's no surprise. And you're right. I shouldn't think about it either. Who cares about him anyway?

“That's the right attitude.” Poland smiled encouragingly. “Today's gonna be great, I know it.”

Before long, they reached an underground parking lot, where France presented some sort of mysterious card and was granted free entrance. Then there was a short ride in a stuffy elevator, and a long walk through dusty corridors; Poland was beginning to wonder if they'd come to the right place, when they reached a mundane looking metal door and stopped right in front of it.

A loud buzz of action could be heard from inside - conversation, shouts, music, tears, hairdryers and the like.

“You ready?” France asked.

As an answer, Poland grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

He barely got a glimpse of sparkly golden wallpaper, rows of clothing racks, mirrors and dressing tables, before someone screamed: “It's FRANCIS!” and suddenly they were overwhelmed by a wave of excited, rushing people in all kinds of colourful and weirdly shaped outfits. “Oh my GOD! Francis!” “Francis, can I have your signature?” “Can I take a picture with you?” “FRANCIS GOT A HAIRCUT!”

“What is going ON here?” Poland yelled, squeezed tight between a photographer and a model who smelled of too much perfume. He yanked at France's sleeve. “Did you get famous when I wasn't paying attention?”

“Ah, did I forget to mention?” France said absently, as he finished signing on a notebook and turned to smile into a camera. “I'm an investor of this brand, and I suggest some of the designs myself. My ideas got surprisingly popular lately.”

“Are you serious?” Poland stared at him. “I can't believe you have enough money and free time to do things like-”

“A man needs a hobby, Feliks,” France replied, pulling him into the photo as well. “It's good for the soul.”

Poland smiled painfully as the camera flashed, momentarily blinding him. As he blinked and tried to get a look of his surroundings, France went back to his chattering and signed his name on books, photos, bags, shirts and any kind of surface available.

Suddenly, the crowd parted in front of them, shouts dying into soft murmurs of awe, and a middle-aged man with slicked-back dark hair and an elegant black suit stepped out. Poland's heart beat faster as he recognised Belrose himself, the founder of the Belrose House, a man whose innovation and sense of colours and cuts were one of a kind.

“Everyone, get back to your posts! We have no time to waste!” Belrose called, clapping his hands twice. The crowd dispersed immediately, stylists returning to work furiously on models' makeup and hairdos. Belrose turned towards France and grinned widely. “Francis, darling! It's so good to see you!”

“Jean-Luc, how are you doing?” The two neatly dressed Frenchmen exchanged enthusiastic kisses on both cheeks.

“I must say,” Belrose said, “we're in a bit of a crisis over here! I was wondering if you'd be able to help. One of the models- Oh!” he caught sight of Poland, eyes growing wider. “Oh, bless you, Francis! I see you've already heard! How nice of you to bring us a replacement.”

“I-” France blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm...” Belrose stepped forward and smiled warmly at Poland while looking him up and down. “Louise is a little bit shorter, but that won't be much of a problem. They seem to be of about the same size, otherwise speaking.”

“Louise?” France frowned.

“Yes, poor girl,” Belrose sighed sadly. “Fell and broke her toe right this morning. She's devastated - she really wanted to take part in the show. But alas!” he straightened up and held a hand out to Poland. “You're here to save us, my dear. What's your name?”

“Feliks,” said Poland, his knees suddenly feeling wobbly as jelly. “But, I'm sorry, I'm not the-”

“What a lovely name! No need to look so shy, any friend of Francis is my friend as well. Are you new to this job?”

“You could say so,” Poland said faintly. “But, as I was saying, I'm not here as-”

“No need to worry. We’ll treat you well.” The master designer rubbed his hands together and glanced behind his shoulder, where a smiling assistant was already bringing forward something long and flowy, made of red chiffon. “Our time is short,” he announced, “the show will be starting soon. Let's get you ready, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, Poland was sitting in front of a mirror, awkwardly brushing his fingers over the fabric of his dress as one stylist furiously worked on his hair, and another patted powder onto his face. “How have things come to this?” Poland demanded in a whisper, glaring at France who stood right next to his chair.

France, on his part, was trying not to laugh. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, shoulders shaking, “the dress really suits you.”

“Well, of course it does!” Poland huffed. “Everything looks good on me. But, Francis,” he looked at him almost pleadingly, “I can't go on that runway. I don't know how!”

“Of course you do,” France snorted. “Look at the way you walk - you're a natural.”

“No, goddamn. I'm gonna die.”

“Close your eyes, darling,” said the make-up artist, and Poland screwed his eyes shut as she started applying eyeshadow to his eyelids.

France raised his eyebrows. “Are you seriously that nervous? Come on, what's one fashion show compared to 80,000 Turks on horses?”

“I feel like I'd prefer the Turks, to be honest.”

“Feliks, you’re so lucky. Lots of people would kill to model for Belrose. I know I would.”

“Ghh…”

“Well,” France considered, scratching his chin, “if you're that against it... Do you want me to tell him you're not really the replacement?”

“N...” Poland reluctantly shook his head. “No, no. I don't wanna leave him without a model.”

The make-up artist frowned. “Don't move!”

“Sorry,” said Poland, and remained as still as a statue. The lady began curling his eyelashes.

“That's good,” France nodded approvingly, “The old man would be really disappointed if you quit. He really likes you, let me tell you that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he says you have a 'powerful, refreshing look.'”

Poland's cheeks grew pinker - and it had nothing to do with the rouge the make-up artist had applied to them. “Well, thanks. That's nice.”

At that moment, the door slammed open, and a girl with flowing platinum curls walked in. “Sorry I'm late, Monsieur Belrose,” she panted, “I came as soon as I got the message about Louise. You didn't start yet, did you?”

Belrose slowly turned around from where he stood chatting with two journalists, and gave the girl a strange look. “Are you...”

“The replacement!” she said enthusiastically.

“Then...” Belrose turned to look at Poland. “You're not-”

“I'm sorry,” France said, stepping forward, “Jean-Luc, this is my good friend Feliks, we came to watch the show together.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Poland in a small voice.

The newly arrived model grew red in the face. “I'm sorry, did you just let a stranger steal my job?”

“Hey! It wasn't your job to begin with,” Poland pointed out, crossing his arms.

“Everyone, let's all keep calm,” said Belrose, gesturing calmingly with his hands in the air. “The show is starting in a few minutes, and Feliks is all dressed up already, so we’re not gonna switch between you two now. and Mademoiselle...”

“Madeline Morel.”

“Mademoiselle Morel may walk in the afternoon show, if she wishes to.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Belrose,” said Madeline, slightly bowing her head. Her eyes, shaded by stray locks of poofy hair, were still furious.

“So it's all settled,” said Belrose, satisfied, and returned to his conversation.

Apparently it wasn't, though; Madeline marched towards Poland, huffing and staring daggers at him. “Who are you even?” she hissed. “I've never seen you around. Where are you from? Russia?”

“Of course not!” Poland said indignantly. “I'm from the Republic of Poland.”

“Oh, even better,” said Madeline with a voice dripping sarcasm. “I bet you never got a glimpse of the big city lights before. You have no idea what it’s like to be a real model.”

“Wow, wow!” France pointed an accusing finger at her, “no reason to be rude!”

“Would you look at this!” Called Belrose in the distance. “Two minutes until we start!”

“It's ok, Francis, I can handle this,” said Poland calmly. “Madeline, I get that you're jealous, and I can tell you that I wasn't planning on stealing your job. But now it's too late for me to change out of this dress. You can walk in the afternoon. So if you'd be so kind, please leave me alone.”

“Oh, I would, but I find it hard to stand aside and let you ruin this show!”

Poland's eyes flashed angrily. “You know what?” he said, pulling on a thin-lipped smile. “Belrose wouldn't let us switch even if there was time. Because he likes me better, and your attitude sucks.”

“At least I don't look like a fucking man!”

“Oh, really? Francis, you heard that?” Poland's voice was ice-cold. “Apparently I look like a man. And here I was, thinking I would never be able to pass.”

“Wha-” the model's eyes bulged. “I can't believe all that queer shit made it to couture as well.”

Poland opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He took a long, deep breath through his nose. Then he gestured at the hairdresser and the make-up artist to step back. They obliged, looking frightened, as Poland stood up slowly and picked up his bag from the dressing table.

What happened next happened almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Without batting an eye, Poland pulled out a plastic box, opened it, flipped a Tarte Aux Fraise onto his right palm and smashed it mercilessly into Madeline's mocking face, spraying bits of jelly and cream all over her clothes and carefully done-up hair.

She was so shocked that she couldn't even speak, and only a choked noise escaped her throat.

As the room fell silent and dozens of eyes fixed upon Poland, he casually wiped his hands on the cloth that covered the dressing table. “I'm sorry for wasting your awesome baking on something as awful as her face,” he told France, before walking away with a swift gait, chin held high. He joined the line of models that formed behind the far door, waiting to step out onto the runway.

The make-up artist yelped, jumping from her seat and holding out an arm as if to pull him back. “Wait, I didn't finish-” She sighed, letting her hand drop to her side. “I didn't finish the eyeliner,” she explained, defeated. “I only did one eye.”

France waved his hand dismissively. “It's a fashion statement. Now come on, let's go somewhere where we can get a better look.”

 

* * *

 

Two thousand kilometres away, cold winds blew around Lithuania's house. Belarus was sitting next to him on the peeling couch, and both had their fingers wrapped around steaming cups of camomile tea. The heating was on, and the warmth made them somewhat drowsy. The TV was showing some posh fashion show in Paris, or something like that.

“Maybe I want to learn to knit,” Belarus mumbled.

“Really?” Lithuania asked. “Why all of a sudden?”

“Dunno.” She ran a finger through her long, pale hair. “I've been watching tons of youtube, and it looks calming.”

“Well, I can teach you.”

“That would be nice.” Belarus returned her eyes to the TV screen. “Hey, that looks cool.”

The fashion hall was designed like an old train station. Rusty train rails crossed the floor, running over a pebbled road overgrown with weeds. The impossibly high and wide walls were covered with a wallpaper mimicking the view of the French countryside. The audience, which was seated on green metal waiting benches in front of a yellow-bricked station house, clearly found it hard to believe that they were in fact indoors. Pressed against one of the walls to complete the immersion, stood a black locomotive, steam puffing out of its chimney as if had just stopped moving.

“I didn't know they went that far just to show off some clothes,” Lithuania said.

“Well, designers take their art very seriously.”

Lithuania uncomfortably looked down at his ugly grandpa sweater. He knew very little about fashion. Belarus and Poland could spend hours looking for the perfect pair of shoes, but Lithuania didn't see a problem with leaving the house in socks and sandals. He wasn't doing that lately, though; it was getting too cold.

“Look,” Belarus said. “It's starting.”

Music began playing from the speakers, and the locomotive's door opened with a creak. An elegant foot in a high-heel emerged. The first model stepped down onto the runway and began her stern-faced stroll. She was wearing a metallic dress of gold and silver, with a matching, jutting headpiece. In Lithuania’s opinion, she looked like a futuristic alien. “That's so weird,” he said, frowning.

“Yeah,” Belarus chuckled. “It's always like that with those shows. It's not anything you can actually wear in real life.”

“Then why do they show it? If nobody's gonna wear it, what's the point?”

Belarus shrugged, taking a small sip of her tea. Lithuania shook his head to himself and brought his own tea to his lips.

The second model stepped off the locomotive, the incredibly long skirt of her bright red dress swishing about as she walked. It seemed to have many layers, differing only slightly in shade from each other. It was certainly flamboyant and unpractical, but it was way more flattering than the previous one.

Then the camera zoomed in on the model's face.

Belarus choked on her tea; Lithuania dropped his cup entirely, spilling hot liquid all over his grey pants. He didn't even seem to notice, and only stared at the screen, his mouth hanging open.

It was Poland.

“What is he doing there?!” Belarus yelped.

Lithuania didn’t reply. He didn’t seem to hear her at all. She waved her hand in front of his dazed face, and he reacted by gently pushing her hand away – because it blocked his view of Poland.

“Tolys!” She frowned. “What is Feliks doing in that French show? Did he tell you anything?”

Lithuania blinked. “We’re not talking. You know that.”

“And why does he only have eyeliner on one eye?” Belarus huffed. “Eh, it’s probably a fashion statement.”

He hadn’t even noticed that. Well, maybe he did notice that _something_ about his eye makeup was a bit out of balance. His attention was taken by the way Poland seemed to be radiating an aura of confidence, and how he smiled that dangerous little smile, the one he always had before riding off into battle. It felt like looking directly into the sun.

And then, as suddenly as he came, he was gone.

More models crossed the catwalk, but Lithuania didn’t feel like watching anymore. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off.

Belarus had her arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t believe he didn’t invite me.”

“I don’t think he had it planned beforehand,” Lithuania said heavily.

“How do you know?”

“He texted me last night-”

“I thought you weren’t talking!”

“We aren’t. I mean-” Lithuania shook his head. “I didn’t reply. I think he was drunk. France probably got him to do it.”

“To send you the message or to do the show?”

“Both. Probably.”

“Show me the message,” she demanded.

Lithuania went to the bedroom to get his cellphone. He didn’t use it often and didn’t see the point of carrying it around with him. He plopped back down on the sofa, scrolled to his and Poland's conversation and showed it to Belarus.

“‘ _I miss you_ ’... Why, isn’t he a master of words.” She clicked her tongue. “I think you should answer him.”

“What?”

“Maybe call him, that would be better.”

“But-”

“Look, this awkward situation between you guys has been going on for way too long. I don’t care if you get back together or not – I just want you to sort this out. I’m tired of my two best friends not talking to each other.”

Lithuania stared at her. “Did you just say I’m your-”

“Don’t make me regret it, Tolys.”

 

* * *

 

There was applause coming from the hall when the last model stepped back into the dressing room. Poland was talking to Monsieur Belrose in hushed tones. From his gestures, it seemed like he was requesting something. The designer smiled warmly and nodded. “Mesdames et Messieurs,” he called. “May I have your attention, please! Feliks has something to say that I believe all of you should hear.”

The excited chatter in the room quieted down, and everyone turned to look at Poland.

He cleared his throat. “First of all, I wanted to say thanks for having me and for all of your help. Today was really fun.”

There was a round of cheers. Everyone had taken to liking him.

“And also, I wanted to ask you something.” Poland’s expression grew stern. “These aren’t easy times... But fashion is always here for us as a way to express ourselves and bring colour and love into the world. We can’t allow ourselves to ruin this beautiful thing by hating on each other. Some people might have a problem with me going on the runway in this dress, but I did it anyway, because I knew I could do it well and look stunning while doing it. So, I just wanted to ask you not to let anyone ever tell you how to dress. This is your life and your art, and you’re creating a better world by being yourself and wearing what you love.”

The room burst into enthusiastic applause and cheers that put the audience outside to shame. Grinning widely, France searched the room with his eyes for the replacement model, Madeline. She was just leaving through the back door, crying. He didn’t feel bad for her one bit.

He then turned and made his way to where an excited crowd formed around Poland. Several people held cameras or microphones in his direction. “Would you say we should fight to achieve social justice through fashion?” Someone was asking.

“How long will you be staying in Paris, Feliks? Do you plan on taking part in other shows as well?”

“Are you looking for a career in the fashion industry?” An agent tucked a business card into Poland’s hand. “I have something in mind for you.”

“Thanks for your kind offer,” Poland said. “But I have to go back home. I have a country full of problems to take care of.”

One of the models gasped quietly. “That’s so brave.”

Poland waved it off, clearly embarrassed. His cheeks were almost as red as his dress.

France put an arm around his shoulder. “You did great! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks. Now, get me out of here!” Poland demanded in a whisper. “This is way too much people, even for me-”

“Sure, right away,” France said. “I think you’ll just need to get out of that dress first.”

“Actually,” interjected Belrose, who appeared on Poland’s other side, “you should keep it.”

Poland’s jaw dropped. “You- I- I couldn’t possibly -”

“It fits you so well, it’s almost as if it was made for you. Besides, I feel very inspired after meeting you. I want you to have it.”

“You shouldn’t refuse a gift,” France said, laughing.

Poland was wordless, so he just nodded gratefully, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Thank you so much,” he managed to croak after a few seconds.

“Let’s take a picture together before you leave,” Belrose said.

“I’ll take the picture,” France offered.

“No,” Poland said, still sounding slightly choked. “I want you in the photo as well. You are the reason I got this amazing moment.”

It was France’s turn to be deeply touched. “Alright, if you insist.”

Belrose asked one of the journalists to take the picture with her huge camera. She happily obliged, photographing the three from every possible angle until Poland declared that he could no longer stand on his high heels, and it was decided that he should switch out of the outfit anyway, even if he was to keep it, because taking a flight dressed like that would be quite uncomfortable.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe we were here just yesterday. Feels like much longer,” said Poland as they stepped into the airport. He was wearing an oversized light-grey top and a burgundy skirt, both of which he had just bought in a clothing-by-the-kilogram store in _Le Marais._ His suitcase was stuffed with other findings.

France had also treated himself with a new skirt, a long and flowy dark-blue one, which he now carried in a paper bag - for a girlier day.  With it were several pairs of socks with silly animal prints, woollen stockings and a striped tie. He was still wearing the jacket from earlier. “Yes, those were two eventful days,” he agreed. “I don't know about you, but I enjoyed myself.”

“Me too. Thanks for inviting me.” Poland smiled at him. “My gate is in that direction, and the security check is gonna close soon, so... I guess I’ll be going. See you around sometime?”

France pulled him into a hug. “You bet you will. I still gotta visit you in Warsaw.”

“Yeah, just drop by any time,” Poland said, voice somewhat muffled. Out of some rare burst of emotion, he stood on the tips of his toes and pecked France on his cheek. Then he stepped back. “Ok, I’m off.”

“Wait, Feliks! I want to ask you something.”

Poland stopped. “Yes?”

France embarrassedly rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’ve been thinking about starting my own brand, just for fun, as a little side project.”

“Go for it.”

“And well,” France continued, “after I saw you on the show today, I thought maybe… I was wondering if maybe you would, uhh, if you’d mind-”

Poland laughed. “Do you want me to model for your brand?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, sure.” Poland shrugged. “I’m in.”

France perked up with excitement. “Really?”

“Come on, Francis. You’re the best designer I know. I’d be honoured to wear your stuff.”

France smiled from ear to ear. He placed both hands upon his heart. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. Hit me up when you want me to try on some clothes.”

Then they hugged once more, and exchanged a high-five, and then Poland finally turned to leave.

“See you, Felek!” France called.

“Bye, Fran!”

France watched Poland walk away until the bright pink of his suitcase was just a smear of colour in the dull airport crowd. Then he laughed to himself, feeling somewhat silly, and began walking towards the parking, where his cute blue Renault awaited.

 

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

_Liet: You looked beautiful on the show today._

_Liet: Call me if you still want to talk…_

These messages greeted Poland when he landed and turned his internet back on. With shaking fingers, he pressed the _call_ button and brought the phone to his ear.

 

* * *

 

France’s phone began ringing around midnight, lighting up the darkened room in blue. France groaned, reached sluggishly for the phone and picked up, half-asleep. “ _Allô_?”

“I miss you too.”

France blinked a few times, his brain not fully processing. Then he jumped up to a sitting position, his pulse pounding in his ears. “ _Arthur_?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” replied the familiar voice cynically. But there was a slight tremble to his words.

“No!” France shook his head, as if it could be seen from the other side of the line. “I just... can’t believe it’s actually you…”

Maybe he was just dreaming again.  He pinched his arm, just to make sure. It felt real alright.

England made a noise like a _harrumph_ , and France could practically hear his frown. “Better start believing,” he said. “Because we have a lot to talk about. And we're starting now.”

  



End file.
